


Migraine

by EmmaArthur



Series: Sense [6]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Clarice is there to take care of him, Clarice is worried, F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Plotless Hurt/Comfort, Sensory Processing Disorder, They're so sweet, john has a migraine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: John has a sensory-induced migraine. Clarice is there to take care of him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the next instalment in my Sense series is Migraine. It got way out of hand, so it's going to be a multi-chapter (I have 5 chapters fully written and it's not finished).
> 
> This is set about two-three months after the end of season one, and a few weeks after Taste, but you don't need to read that to understand. This chapter is mostly just the 'hurt' part, but you'll be getting plenty of Thunderblink comfort in the rest of the story.
> 
> Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!

John presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to get rid of the headache building up between his temples. It's one of those days that he knew would be awful before he even dragged himself out of bed, barely four hours after returning from his latest road trip with Marcos. He woke up already half-overloaded, and he's been tired and irritable all day, everything too loud and too bright.

After a twelve-hour trip in a an old car, exerting his ability to its fullest to catch even a hint of Lorna's presence, and realizing two hours in that he'd forgotten to bring sunglasses, John shouldn't be surprised that his body would make him pay. He might be near bulletproof, but he's far from invulnerable.

But he pushes through the fatigue and the headache to deal with the fallout of the latest raid on one of the Network's mutant hideouts while Clarice is out helping Lauren at the refugee shelter. He forgoes lunch because his stomach can't handle even the thought of food right now, but he doesn't listen to the voice in his head that tells him to go back to bed. He still needs to go down to the car shop to check on Marcos, who is more depressed after each time a lead on Lorna turns into a dead end.

John checks his watch. Marcos should be awake by now, though he doesn't always bother to get out of bed these days. He wonders for a minute−far too long, staring into space−whether it would be more tiring to use his powers to check whether his friend is down in the hangar first or just to head down there. The strain of extending his reach feels like too much to handle, so John stands up with a sigh.

Marcos is in the shop, loudly and angrily cutting through what seems like random bits of metal. John immediately wants to put his hands over his ears, but instead he walks over until Marcos notices him and stops. John sighs internally in relief.

“What are you doing?” he asks, when the echo of the noise dies down enough for words to come back into his mind.

Marcos is already looking past him, lost in his thoughts, but his gaze shifts back to John at his question.

“I don't know,” he says. “Just needed to−”

He trails off. John nods sadly.

“We'll find her,” he says. Even he hates the empty platitudes, but he still defaults to them when nothing seems to get through Marcos's despair. There's nothing he can give his friend beside hope, and that hope keeps turning into bitterness each time he loses another trail.

“We've been looking for over two months,” Marcos says. “What if she's−”

“No, we can't think like this,” John interrupts him. He's had these same thoughts too many times. They have no guarantee that Lorna is okay, or even alive, but they have no other choice than to assume she is.

“Then how am I supposed to think?” Marcos explodes, swiping at the metal scraps in front of him hard enough to send them flying.

John doesn't duck when some of the debris hits his body, barely hard enough for him to feel it, but he nearly whimpers at the echoing noise of metal hitting the concrete floor. He freezes instead and manages, somehow, to hide his wince. He feels more and more like throwing up.

It's not just the overload. Marcos's anguish, his accusative tone, all of this sends him right back into his own guilt over everything that's happened. Lorna's decision might not be on him, but he should have seen it coming, should have had defenses in place, should have stopped her from crashing that plane. He should have been there to fight off the Sentinel Services and defended the station, instead of leaving it to a bunch of kids and refugees. Pulse, Sonya...he should have been able to save them. It was his responsibility.

Marcos hasn't noticed him zoning out, because he keeps advancing toward John, almost menacing now.

“What am I supposed to think?” he nearly screams. John does his best not to recoil. “You can't find her! She could be on the other side of the country, for all the use you've been! She could be dead!”

“Marcos−” John starts.

“Don't tell me she's fine,” Marcos spits. “You really have no idea.”

He's still rational enough not to try to hit John, despite his rage. John still hasn't moved, paralyzed by the situation. He's usually good at resolving conflicts,  but not right now, not when he can't think straight. And he's failed at helping Marcos from the beginning.

“You don't even care, do you? Not really. You've finally found your perfect life with your little girlfriend and Lorna doesn't matter anymore, right?” Marcos screams.

John knows Marcos has just crossed over into the irrational, but it still feels like a knife in his chest. Another day, he would argue, try to make him see reason, to make him see how much of his accusation is just wrong, but he can't even open his mouth.

And Marcos isn't even missing his target. John can't help feeling guilty, that he's finding a kind of peace with Clarice, when his best friend is going through what he is. He can't help feeling bad about moving on so soon after Sonya's death, after Pulse−

Marcos seems to realize that he's gone over the line, and he steps back in horror.

“I didn't mean that,” he murmurs, looking at the floor. “I didn't, I just−”

John doesn't move, still frozen, still speechless, still struggling against the onslaught of emotions and sensations pressing against his brain. He knows how he must appear to Marcos, standing there expressionless, but he's fairly sure any movement he makes now will result in him either bolting or throwing up.

“I miss her so much,” Marcos says, anguish deforming his features. “I can't keep doing this.”

He drops to his knees and lets out a deep, heart wrenching sob. John watches him without being able to do anything, though after a minute he manages to crouch down in front of his weeping friend and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Marcos−” he starts rasping, but he can't go any further.

It's the moment Marcos loses control and lets out his power, at full force. The ground under him starts smoking, and John is blinded by the sudden light emitting from his hands.

It feels like his head is exploding. John has been on the receiving end of Marcos's uncontrolled ability before, but rarely from this close and never when he was already on the verge of a meltdown. In spite of himself, he curls up and protects his eyes with his arms, but it's not enough to stop the intense light from coming through. He's completely unable to call his friend out, and he's not sure Marcos would hear him in any case.

It lasts for what feels like an eternity. John is pretty sure his boot soles are melting under him as the floor heats up, but he can't feel anything over the pain in his head, and he's more or less impervious to heat in any case. The pain, the light, has taken over his mind, chasing all other thoughts away until he can't even feel his body. Control is far out of his grasp right now, though when John lashes out, desperate to make the pain stop, he just knocks Marcos lightly to the ground. A small part of him is relieved at that.

The rest of him bolts the moment the light recedes. He doesn't check that Marcos is alright−he's not, clearly, but John doesn't think he's hurt him. He rushes over to his apartment, relying on his hearing and his abilities because his eyes are still firmly closed, and only barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up what little is in his stomach.

He stays there for long time, on his knees in front of the toilet, his head in his hands. He can't concentrate on anything beyond the pain in his head. The cold porcelain is almost soothing on his brow, though the bathroom is so small that the door digs into his back.

Getting up again feels like too much of an effort, but after a while the light coming through the small bathroom window wins and he drags himself to the bedroom, not bothering to flush the toilet−he can't handle the noise right now.

It's been a while since he had an overload that bad. He's not sure what brought this on, he's been in worse situations−no, that's not right, he does know. Getting the full brunt of Marcos's power in his face has certainly not helped, but it's not the sole cause of the migraine now pressing behind his eyes.

John draws the curtains closed, wincing at the hiss of the metal rings on their rod, and kicks off his shoes. There is little to do about the migraine beside waiting it out, so he might as well get comfortable.

The stress of the last few months is getting to him more than he's willing to admit even to himself. He hasn't had an episode like this since before he met Clarice, and God knows that Headquarters was louder and more eventful than their little apartment here.

He'd have thought it would be easier to sleep, here, but living in the city means it's never quiet. John doesn't know anymore if he really has too much on his mind to sleep or if his insomnia has just become a part of him that isn't going away. He doesn't remember the last time he slept through the night, but it must date back to before he enlisted.

With an internal sigh, he lets himself fall down on the bed, turning away from the window and pressing a hand to his exposed ear to tune out the background noise. The apartment is nothing if not badly insulated, and the streets are busy in the middle of the afternoon. It's enough to feel like his head is on fire.


	2. Chapter 2

“We'll have to keep trying to get Randy to come out of his shell−I have some ideas about that,” Clarice says to Lauren as they get out of the car.

Lauren smiles. “You don't know how much help you've been. It's so hard sometimes to help the mutants who can't pass.”

“Yes, well, I happen to know something about it,” Clarice says. She enjoys that the shelter is one of the places she can go without hiding her eyes or face marks, though she only volunteers there once a week.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then?” Lauren asks, already walking in the direction of their building.

Clarice nods. “Yeah, John said we need to discuss their last trip. Tell your parents, will you? Eight a.m. in the shop as usual.”

“Right. Have a good night then.”

“You too.”

Clarice watches her go and takes out her phone to check there's no message from John. He was barely awake this morning when she left, so they didn't have time to talk, but she's been concerned all day about how tired he was when he came back last night, how tired he's been lately.

She walks over to the shop first, both to check how Marcos is doing after yesterday's failure and because she suspects John might be there. She finds Marcos curled up on one of the couches, staring off into space, with no sign of John.

“Marcos?” she calls.

He doesn't seem to hear her, not moving.

Clarice sighs. She's mostly let John deal with Marcos's bouts of depression so far, though she tries to help when she can. She's only now really getting to know Marcos and how deep his love for Lorna runs, but she's also getting a bit fed up with his bleak state of mind.

She doesn't see the scraps of metal strewn over the floor until she steps on one and stumbles, cursing. Marcos's eyes finally focus on her at the noise.

“What happened?” she asks. Marcos is a tidy guy, he doesn't even leave his tools out. The pieces of metal don't come from anything Clarice can recognize, but they shouldn't be on the floor. “This could hurt someone, you know.”

“Sorry,” Marcos murmurs. He opens his mouth to say something else, but nothing comes out.

“What happened?” Clarice asks again, more softly this time. She sits down on the couch beside Marcos.

“I lost control,” Marcos says. “Again.”

“Was John here?”

Marcos nods. “He's gone back home. You should go see him. I don't think he's okay.”

“What do you mean?” Clarice asks, this time really worried.

“I said things… And then I lit up right in his face. You know he doesn't handle bright lights so well.”

“Damn,” Clarice says, starting to stand back up. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Marcos answers. “It's no different from the last, what, five times we've hit a dead end, is it? I should be used to it by now.”

Clarice shakes her head. “I know it's hard.”

“Still not a good reason to take it out on my best friend. And now I feel even worse.”

“Don't worry, John can take it,” Clarice says. She wishes she really felt that sure, after how down John has been lately, but saying it gives her a little confidence that things will work out.

“Tell me how he's doing, will you? He really didn't seem great.”

“I will.”

She squeezes Marcos's shoulder and heads out of the shop.

The apartment is dark when she lets herself in. It's not yet five, but it's the middle of the winter and the sky has been overcast and heavy with rain all day. Without even thinking about it, Clarice turns on the overhead light of their little living room and drops her keys and purse on the table, already looking for John.

“John? You here?”

There is no answer at first. Clarice notices distractedly that their bedroom door is shut, when they rarely close it during the day. After a while, she hears what sounds like a low moan coming from behind.

“John?” she asks again, lower this time. She opens the door and is greeted by another moan and a dark room.

She can distinguish John's shape lying curled up in their bed, an arm firmly pressed over his eyes. The curtains are drawn, barely letting any light into the room, and John is turned away from the window.

“What's wrong?” Clarice asks, whispering. Once thing she has learned is that John hates loud noise when he's not feeling well.

“Close the door,” John mutters, even quieter.

Clarice obeys and gives her eyes a moment to get used to the near darkness. She feels her way to the bed and sits down carefully.

“What is it?” she asks again.

“Migraine,” John says. He removes his arm from his eyes, and opens them long enough to give Clarice a bleary look, before he firmly shuts them again.

Clarice reaches out to take his hand in hers.

“Anything I can do?”

“No. Will go away. Just be quiet,” John says haltingly, like each word is too much of an effort.

“Should I ask Caitlin for painkillers?” Clarice whispers.

“Won't work.”

“Okay.” Clarice strokes his face gently, bringing a strand of his hair back behind his ear, and John shudders under her touch. Clarice removes her hand, unsure if she's hurting him.

“You should go,” John murmurs. “'m not...good company.”

“I don't care,” Clarice murmurs back. “But I want to know what's best for you. You want me to go?”

John doesn't answer for a moment. “Don't know,” he says, finally.

“I can stay for a bit and you tell me,” Clarice says.

John just acknowledges her words with a squeeze of her hand. Clarice swings her legs up on the bed and lies down beside him, carefully not to jostle him. She watches his pained features, listens to his slightly labored breathing, feels the tremor in his hand.

She doesn't ask the burning questions in her mind, like whether Marcos is right and his outburst caused the migraine, or how long they normally last−she's half hoping that there is no 'normally' about this, but John doesn't seem worried or surprised, only pained. He's not in any state to answer her questions right now, so she just tries to be an unobtrusive presence at his side, even though her arm is starting to feel stiff from the awkward position, squashed under her body.

They stay like this, unmoving beyond John's occasional tensing at a noise in the street below, until Clarice's stomach starts to rumble. John winces, but opens his eyes to look at her, squinting.

“What time is it?” he asks, his voice barely loud enough for Clarice to hear.

Clarice hits the light-up button on her alarm clock, doing her best to shield John from the light. “Almost eight,” she says.

“You should get some dinner.”

Clarice nods. “You want anything?”

Even in the dark, she can see John's face blanch at the thought. “No,” he murmurs.

“You okay here for a bit?”

“Sure.”

Clarice makes a doubtful face.

“I'll be fine, Clarice,” John sighs. “Don't worry about me.”

Clarice huffs silently, because this is so like John. He wouldn't want anyone worrying about him even if he was on his deathbed. Which he pretty much looks like he is right now.

“Fine,” she says.

She takes one last look at him, taut with pain, his face screwed up in a grimace as he presses his arm over his eyes again, and forces herself to stand up.

Seeing him like this makes Clarice's heart clench. John rarely admits to any kind of weakness, even to her, so she can't even imagine the pain he must be in to be in this state. She's seen him push through sensory overloads before, through extending his tracking ability too far and through exhaustion born out of sleep deprivation, but she's never seen him like this.

Tiptoeing out, Clarice carefully shuts the door behind her. She stays standing for a while in the middle of the living room, frozen. She has no idea how to help, but she also can't take her mind off John's suffering. She has to force herself to move, her stomach rumbling again as if food was important right now.

The first thing she does is put her phone on silent, dreading it ringing right now, then she texts Marcos. He's got his own problems to worry about, so she keeps it light, but she does ask if the migraines happen often.

Five minutes of staring off into space later, her phone lights up with the answer.

_Tell him I'm really sorry. He has them every few months. First night can be rough. You need any help?_

Clarice takes in the information slowly, wondering why she's never heard about this before. No, she knows why. John doesn't disclose this kind of things until he has no choice. He hates that his mutation comes with vulnerabilities he can't always hide.

_No, we'll be okay,_ she writes back.

'First night' implies that this might last for several days, too. She's not sure she can watch John go through this for so long. No, scratch that, it sounds horribly selfish. She's not sure John can go through this for so long.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts and opens the fridge. She doesn't feel like cooking, but there's a box of leftovers that she put there for John to eat when he came home last night−or early this morning. She frowns to see it untouched, but she takes it out and pops it into the microwave.

It may just be empathy, but she finds herself wincing at every noise she makes, and scrambles to stop the microwave before it beeps. She eats in silence, brooding over what to do, and leaves her dishes in the sink. She's seen John wince at silverware hitting porcelain on good days, so she has no doubt the noise will feel bad even through the closed door.

It's only when she goes to prepare herself for bed−it might be early, but she doesn't want to disturb John by doing it later−that she notices the smell of vomit coming out of the bathroom. With a grimace of both worry and distaste, she closes the door behind her and flushes the toilet as quietly as possible. Is John actually sick, or did he throw up just from the pain? Neither option is appealing to her.

She racks her brain for anything she might know about migraines, but there isn't much. She thinks they can cause nausea, but she's not sure. And she has no way to know whether John's migraines will behave like regular ones, when they seem to be caused by his mutation's sensory issues. One more thing she'll have to ask him. When he's doing better.

She tiptoes back into the bedroom, hoping that John has managed to fall asleep. The noise is the first thing to tell her she's wrong, but she only understand what it means when her eyes get used to the darkness again. John is propped up on one elbow, heaving painfully into the trash can.

Urgently, Clarice skirts around the bed and kneels in front of him.

“John?” she whispers.

He flinches and she realizes that he didn't even notice her coming in. Since she's never managed to sneak up on him before, it says something about how out of it he really is.

“Uh?” is all he manages to answer before he heaves again.

Clarice quickly holds his hair out from his face, but it's just dry-heaving, he has nothing in his stomach to throw up.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

John shakes his head slightly, and immediately seems to regret it. “Just nausea. From the migraine.”

“Okay,” Clarice murmurs. She gently takes the trash can from his trembling hands. “You done?”

“Yeah,” John mumbles. He looks up briefly at her, before his eyes shut tightly again. “Sorry.”

“Don't be−” Clarice starts. That's when she sees the tear tracks on his cheeks. She almost throws up herself.

For John−the strong, invulnerable Thunderbird−to be crying from sheer pain…

Clarice very slowly, deliberately, puts the trash can back on the floor and helps John lie back down, and he lets out a choked moan when his head hits the pillow.

“Oh, John,” she mouthes, studying his face further. She goes to lie down beside him again, and she pulls the covers over both of them.

“I'll be alright,” John murmurs.

Clarice almost want to laugh. Even in this state, he's still trying to reassure her. She strokes his face, trying to ease the lines of pain, but he barely seems to feel it. She wants nothing more than to hug him right now, to offer comfort the only way she knows how, but she's too afraid to make it worse.

They're still in the same position, John curled up on himself as tight as he can and Clarice with one hand on his arm, when she falls asleep several hours later. They haven't said a word, though Clarice can tell John wasn't sleeping by the pained frown on his face.

She spends the whole night tense and worried, unable to relax while John is in a world of pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrate it. Here is more Thunderblink hurt/comfort (John isn't out of the woods yet). As always, tell me what you think!

Clarice wakes up feeling stiff and sore, from trying to stay too still in her sleep. She needs a moment to remember the events of last night, but when she does, she immediately seeks John's form in the bed next to her.

She's woken several times during the night to find him still taut with pain, but now his body is relaxed.

“Hey,” John murmurs when he feels her move.

His eyes are open, even though some light is coming into the room from behind the curtains. He's still squinting a little, but the lines of pain have mostly eased from his face. If she ignored the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his skin, Clarice would barely be able to tell that he's not fine.

“You feeling better?” she asks to make sure.

“Yeah,” John says, and his voice is stronger too, though it's still little more than a whisper. “The worse of it should be over now,” he adds.

“Should?”

“Probably should stay away from any nightclubs for a while,” John shrugs with a half-smile.

“You don't do nightclubs,” Clarice smiles back with relief. “You're still in pain,” she frowns when he winces a little as her voice picks up.

“It's gonna be a couple days before I'm back to normal,” John says, looking away in something like embarrassment.

“John, you don't need to hide from me,” Clarice whispers.

“I know. I just...really hate this.”

“I know.” Clarice rubs his exposed arm. “Have you slept at all?”

“Some. It's hard when it hurts so much. I'll get more rest later,” he assures her.

“You can sleep all day if you want,” Clarice says. “We've got nowhere to be.”

“I called a meeting, remember? We have to be down at the shop in an hour.”

“You really want to go? We can reschedule, it wouldn't be a problem.”

“No,” John says. “I want to get it over with. I'll be fine, don't worry.”

“Okay,” Clarice nods. “If you're sure. I'll go take a shower then.”

She swings her legs off the bed and gives John one last look before she leaves the room. He gives her his best attempt at a bright smile, but it's overshadowed by the pain in his eyes.

When she comes out of the shower, he's dragged himself out of bed to sit at the table, and he's holding his head in his hands. Clarice notices for the first time that he's still wearing jeans and a rumpled tee-shirt from yesterday.

“Your turn,” she tells him playfully as she passes him, trying to act as she normally would. She know John won't thank her if she coddles him too much.

He doesn't react.

“John? You want to go shower?”

“What?” he asks, looking up blearily at her and shutting his eyes close when the light hits them. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You're sure you're okay?” Clarice frowns.

“Yeah, just tired. Zoned out for a bit,” John answers, slowly getting up. He sways and catches himself on the table, making it wobble worryingly.

“Hey, you're not going to pass out on me, are you?”

“No, just dizzy. 'S fine.”

“Right,” Clarice says doubtfully. “You're sure you can shower on your own?”

John shoots her a look, only slightly ruined by his squinting, and walks slowly to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

“Yes, I know, you're fine,” Clarice calls after him, keeping her voice low because she knows he can hear her anyway. “Just yell if you need anything, okay?”

John doesn't answer, but Clarice can't help listening for noises while she prepares breakfast. It takes a little longer than usual until he comes back out and goes into their bedroom to get dressed, but not long enough to worry. She hesitates before taking advantage of it to do her dishes from last night, making as little noise as possible.

She never imagined, before meeting John, that noise could truly hurt someone. She's heard plenty of times that loud music can make you deaf, though it's never been one of her main worries while on the run. But that sometimes the smallest noise, the lightest whisper, can rip agony through someone's head is one of the many things John opened her eyes to. One she could just as well have done without, to be honest.

John comes back into the living room looking refreshed, wearing clean clothes and with his hair combed. Clarice snorts when she sees he's put on a pair of sunglasses.

“You look ridiculous,” she says fondly.

“What, you don't like the Men In Black look?” John shoots back−it's nowhere near his normal level of banter, and his voice is rough, but at least he's trying. That's certainly a great deal better than last night.

“Sunglasses at the breakfast table? You look like you're hungover.”

“More or less feel like it, too, so...” John shrugs.

“What do you want to eat?” Clarice asks.

She can't see his eyes anymore behind the glasses, but he looks distinctly sick at the thought.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, only to groan at the motion.

Clarice bites her lip. It would be easier if he did have a hangover, rather than this new thing she doesn't know whether to worry about or not.

“You want anything to drink?” she asks.

“Coffee sounds good, if I can handle the smell,” John answers, propping his head on his arms again.

“You okay if I eat? I can go somewhere else,” Clarice says.

“No, stay.” John shifts to hold his head with one hand and puts his other hand on Clarice's, as she sits down with two steaming mugs. “Thanks.”

“You're sure you want to go to the meeting?”

John sighs. “It's a little worse than I hoped,” he admits. “But I'm probably not going to be much better for a couple of days, so we might as well do it now.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, pulls the mug back to stare at it, then gulps the rest down quickly.

“Is that really good for you?” Clarice asks.

“Caffeine doesn't have much of an effect on me,” John answers. “But the heat feels nice.”

“I thought you were heat-resistant?”

“Only on the outside. I don't think I could burn myself with coffee, but I do feel the heat.”

“Right,” Clarice says. “So you've had migraines like this before?”

John looks at her for a moment before answering−at least that's what she assumes he does behind the sunglasses.

“I used to have them a lot, back when I first manifested. They're not actual migraines, just really bad headaches.”

“How does it work? Are they triggered by something?”

“Usually by a bad overload, but it can be as stupid as a someone wearing too much perfume,” John says. “But it only happens if I've been stressed or overloaded for a while,” he admits, looking away.

“So this was triggered by Marcos lighting up on you?” Clarice asks.

“He told you that?”

“He says he's sorry.”

John nods. “Yes, that's what started it. But I drove for too long in the sun the other day and didn't sleep properly, so I think that's what brought it on, really.”

“Oh,” Clarice responds, unable to think of anything better to say.

“Hey,” John squeezes her hand. “I know it looks scary, but I'll be okay.”

“I know you will,” Clarice says. “I just don't like seeing you like this.”

John nods. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out like that.”

“You don't like to talk about it,” Clarice states.

“No.”

“Is it about admitting weakness?”

John sighs. “Not really. I just… Losing control over my body is something I've always been afraid of.”

“Because of what happened with your brother?” Clarice asks. “Sorry,” she retracts when she sees him tense. “We can talk about this another time.”

“Thanks,” John says with a small smile. “Come here. I don't think I'm up to anything else, but I can do a hug.”

Clarice laughs and stands up to sit on his lap. John puts one arm around her and extends the other to move his mug away, but he misses it by nearly half a foot.

“Damn,” he murmurs, trying again. This time he manages to grab the mug, only to overturn it. Clarice catches it before it falls off the table.

“Hey, what's up with that?” she asks, her worry returning full force.

“Nothing, I just get clumsy with the headaches. Can't feel my body properly. Getting dressed was...interesting.”

“I can imagine,” Clarice says, but the concern doesn't really ease.

Ten minutes later, she eyes him as they walk down the corridor hand in hand. John looks almost normal, beside the sunglasses, like last night never happened, but she catches his wince at the door slamming behind them, his hand coming up to protect his eyes when they step outside.

The car shop is not the quietest place, as sound bounces off the high ceiling and all the exposed metal. Clarice has slipped John's ear defenders in her pocket, despite his assurance that he doesn't need them, but she knows he won't use them unless things really get out of hand. Wearing sunglasses is the only concession he's willing to make to his current state, and Clarice knows that he wouldn't even have considered them if he thought he could do without.

Marcos and the Struckers are already there, talking quietly in a corner. Marcos steps away from the others as soon as he spots them, and comes over.

“Hey, guys,” he says, his voice lower than normal. “How are you doing?”

Clarice knows the question is for John, so she just squeezes his hand, unsure how focused he is right now.

“I'm okay,” John answers even quieter. “Better,” he adds when he sees Marcos's doubtful expression.

“I'm really sorry, John. Not just for losing control, but for what I said.”

“I know. It's okay, brother,” John says, putting a hand on Marcos's shoulder. Clarice looks for any sign of a tremor, but his hand is steady and strong. She wonders what exactly Marcos said yesterday to look this contrite.

“Anything you need?” Marcos asks, acknowledging his friend's forgiveness with a nod.

“Just to get this over with,” John answers, taking a step forward.

Marcos steps out of the way, and John goes to sit in the couch, pulling Clarice along with him. He doesn't even acknowledge the others, which is completely uncharacteristic for him and tells Clarice how bad he must be feeling. The tenseness of his body and the way he involuntarily leans against her just confirm it.

She wants to ask him again if he's sure he can do this, but right now it would only make it harder for him. She curls up a bit in his arms instead, lets him pretend that he's hugging her rather than hunched over from the pain.

“John, Lauren told us you wanted to talk about your trip−” Reed starts, turning toward them. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” John says, too quietly, his face inched away from the windows−and thus from Reed and Caitlin. “Just a headache.”

“Right,” Reed says doubtfully. There's more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “I'd have thought it would take a lot for you to get that drunk.”

Clarice starts rising in anger, but John closes his arm around her to prevent her from moving.

“I'm not hungover,” he says flatly.

“It's a migraine,” Clarice answers Caitlin's questioning stare before she can ask. She can see John doesn't want to dwell on it, but Reed doesn't look ready to just let it slide. Lauren grimaces behind her father, annoyed at his insensitivity.

“Do you need anything?” Caitlin asks, glaring at her husband. “Painkillers?”

“No,” John says. “I'll be fine.”

He's so clearly unwilling to discuss it that they all give in. Marcos, who has so far stood aside, takes a chair and moves it over to the couch John and Clarice are sitting on, giving the signal for the meeting to start.


	4. Chapter 4

Once he's updated the others on their latest lost trail, John can almost feel his energy leaking out of his body. It's a bizarre sensation, where everything around him becomes blurry and confused, and his movements are like trudging through jelly.

He knows it was foolish of him to insist on doing this meeting, that he's given it everything he has, but he's always been bad at this conserving energy thing. Or at admitting his own limits. He'd so much rather pretend they weren't there.

And the unforgiving pain of the migraine, bashing into his head at every voice, every sniff of Lauren's discrete perfume, every ray of light, is making him lethargic rather than tense, today. John is not sure that's better. His whole body is sore from contracting all night, but now fatigue is blowing over him.

Reed and Caitlin startle him by standing up, and John realizes the meeting is over and he hasn't heard a word of it. He's still leaning against Clarice, who must be straining under his weight by now, and his head is pounding in rhythm with his heart.

“John?”

Clarice's voice is simultaneously coming from far away and like fire in his ears. John digs inside himself to find the energy to sit up and untangle himself from her. His movements are sluggish and clumsy.

“What's wrong with him? He was okay earlier,” he hears Clarice whisper, and he realizes Marcos is the one crouching in front of him, an undefined shape in the glare coming from the window. John closes his eyes again.

“John?” Marcos tries, gently shaking his hand. At least that's what John thinks he's doing, but he can barely feel it.

“Hm?” John tries, swallowing when his mouth is too dry to talk.

“John, I need you to pay attention for a second,” Marcos says.

Things are getting clearer again, though the pain in his head doesn't abate. John nods slowly.

“I need to know if you'd rather stay here or go back to your place.”

“Home,” John murmurs, because it's the most he can say in one go right now.

Though the couch feels inviting, the hangar is the worst place for him to be. The windows can't be covered, and the acoustics are terrible.

“Alright,” Clarice says. “Marcos is gonna help, okay?”

John wants to protest, or thank them, he isn't even sure, but the words don't make it past his mouth. He swallows again, instead, battling the never-ending nausea. He holds up a hand before Marcos can haul him up like he seems to be planning−telegraphing his moves, probably so it gets through the fog in John's brain−and tries to breathe until he doesn't feel like his insides want to come out anymore.

“'k,” he murmurs. “'m ready.”

“Ear defenders,” Clarice warns before she gently put them on his ears. John makes a vague gesture of thanks. The pressure around his head isn't the best thing right now, but at least they muffle the noise from the street outside and the echoes of their voices.

Marcos guides John's arm over his shoulders, and between him and Clarice, they get him on his feet. John tries to lean on them as little as possible, knowing he's too heavy for either of them to carry. His legs are jelly like the rest of him, but as long as he has someone to guide him, he can walk. He just doesn't think he can orientate himself−especially with his eyes closed against the light−or stay upright properly without help.

The stairs are awkward. Enhanced proprioception issues make John completely unable to know where his feet are in relation to the steps, and he has to squint his eyes open and stare at them. He's still leaning too much on Marcos−he tries to stand up straighter, but he only manages to overbalance and nearly make Clarice fall down the stairs.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, once he's made sure she's okay.

She squeezes his hand hard enough for him to feel. “It's okay. Let's just get you up there.”

John struggles to walk the rest of the way mostly under his own power, only letting his friends act as guides. The fog is too thick to concentrate through, but he makes it to their apartment. He collapses on the bed, his energy fully spent.

Clarice closes the curtains and gently removes his shoes, while Marcos backs out of the room.

“You need anything?” she asks, whispering, stroking his face like she did last night.

“No,” John says. “I'll be alright.” There's no pretending that he's okay right now, not after the show he just gave them.

“I love you,” Clarice murmurs. John opens his eyes, only noticing now that she's removed his glasses and ear defenders and put them on the nightstand. The room is dark enough that he can see her face without squinting. She looks close to tears.

John sighs. She's never seen him with a migraine before, so this has to be hard on her. He hates himself for that. Gently, he catches her hand on his cheek and brings it to his mouth to kiss. “Don't worry.”

Clarice lets out a very small laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah,” John says. He looks for a way to say what he wants that doesn't take too many words, but his head is pounding too much. “This...is nothing. I'll be fine. Just need...time.”

“Okay,” Clarice says. “I just hate seeing you like this.”

“You should...go. I'll just sleep.”

“You sure? I can stay.”

John nods carefully. “Just tired,” he says, closing his eyes. He keeps to himself the rest of it, the pain and the nausea and his once again shaking hands. There's nothing to be done about them anyway.

 

Gnawing on her lower lip, Clarice joins Marcos back in the living room.

“He says he's going to sleep,” she says, slumping into a chair. “Help yourself if you want anything,” she adds with a wave toward the kitchen, realizing she's being a terrible host. But Marcos is not really a guest either, he's as close as it gets to family.

Marcos nods, but simply sits down at the table.

“You okay?” he asks.

“What's going on with him?” Clarice asks instead of answering, unable to tear her eyes away from the closed bedroom door. “He was okay this morning. I mean, not okay, but better.”

“I think he just over-estimated his strength,” Marcos says. “He's going to have ups and downs for a couple of days.”

“Hum,” Clarice nods. “He crashed really fast, though.”

“It's happened before, okay? Don't worry too much.”

Clarice nods slowly. “I just… I feel really helpless.”

“I know it's hard,” Marcos says. “Believe me, I was just as scared the first time I saw him like this, but he will get better.”

“Thank you,” Clarice says.

“For what?”

“Saying that. I feel bad that it's so hard to watch him like that. I just want to help, but−”

“You seem to be doing a good job of that,” Marcos says.

Clarice gives him a small smile. “Wish I could do more.”

“Me too,” Marcos admits. “This is a bad one,” he adds. “Usually he feels better after getting some sleep.”

“I don't think he slept much. And he hasn't been sleeping well in general, not since−” Clarice make a wide motion, still unable to find the words to refer to what happened in Atlanta and Charlotte. “Maybe even before that, I'm not sure.”

Marcos frowns, thinking. “He might be also hypoglycemic. When was the last time he ate?”

“I don't know,” Clarice says. “He didn't want anything this morning, or last night.” She remembers the untouched container in the fridge. “Probably not since you came back,” she adds. “And he threw up yesterday.”

“Damn,” Marcos murmurs. “This is my fault.”

“Marcos,” Clarice calls to get him to look at her. “It's not your fault. He said you were just the trigger, that the cause was something else.”

“Still,” Marcos says. “I keep losing control. I can't go on like this.”

Clarice puts a hand on his arm. “We all understand, Marcos. We'll get to Lorna, okay?”

“Yes. Sorry, I shouldn't even be burdening you with my problems right now. We need to get John to eat something. I know the migraines make him nauseous, but he needs the strength.”

“I have this chicken broth recipe from my foster mom,” Clarice says. “You think he could eat that?”

“Maybe. Won't hurt to try. You need anything from the store? I can go if you want to stay with him.”

“Thanks,” Clarice smiles at Marcos. “That would be great. It will take a while to cook, though. Should I try to get him to eat crackers or something first?”

“Maybe you should get advice from Caitlin,” Marcos says. “She'll know better than me.” He blinks and looks away. “Lorna knew what to do for John, every time. I never did.”

Clarice looks at him sadly for a moment and nods. “Okay, I'll text Caitlin.”

“What do you need from the store?”

“I have some frozen chicken,” Clarice says, going over to the freezer and taking out the meat to warm up in the sink. “Let me see...celery, mushrooms...parsley? Yes, I think that's it.”

“Alright,” Marcos stands up. “I should be back in half-an-hour.”

Clarice nods. “Thanks. Can you get some Gatorade too? In case he really can't handle food?”

“Sure.”

Marcos leaves the apartment, careful not to slam the door on his way out, and Clarice finds herself alone and worried again. At a loss, she looks around the kitchen. She doesn't want to wake John up, but he does need to eat, so she pops some bread in the toaster for him.

She brings it to him a few minutes later on a plate, with a glass of water. She figures it might be better to get him to eat before he falls asleep too deeply.

“Dry toast?” John asks with amusement, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The room is nearly fully dark, so he doesn't need to put his sunglasses back on. Clarice tries to navigate it by memory and almost drop the plate when she stubs her toe on the corner of the bed.

“I thought it might stay down better than real food,” Clarice says. “You're still nauseous, aren't you?”

John nods, and seems to regret it. “Not sure I can eat even that,” he says.

“Do you want to try, at least? You need to eat.” Clarice doesn't want to baby him, to take away his right to decide for himself, but she's not sure how clearly he can think right now.

“I know,” John sighs, proving he's conscious of his situation. “I'll try.”

Clarice hands him the plate and puts the glass of water on his nightstand. “Can I sit with you?” she asks.

“You don't have to. I know this is hard for you.”

“Hard for me?” Clarice bites down her instinctive reaction to reassure him and goes for the truth. “Yeah, it's hard watching you in pain. That's why I want to help.”

“Thank you,” John murmurs, taking a small bite of the toast. Neither of their voices have gone above a whisper, and John winces at the noise the toasted bread makes in his mouth.

“Oh, I didn't think of that,” Clarice apologizes.

“It's okay,” John says. “I don't think I'll manage much more anyway. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. It's not your fault.”

“But you went to the trouble of making this.”

“John, it's toast, not a couscous,” Clarice says. “I just want you to feel better.”

“Yeah, me too,” John says with a self-depreciating smile.

“I want to try to make you some chicken broth for later. You think you could eat that?”

“Maybe. Sometimes the nausea gets better after I've slept.”

“Good,” Clarice says.

John puts the plate aside and doesn't try to eat anymore. His head is already lolling to the side, like it's too heavy for him to hold up.

“Go to sleep,” Clarice murmurs. “And call me if you need anything, alright?”

John doesn't even answer and only lies back down on his side, pressing his arm over his exposed ear once more.

“What am I going to do with you?” Clarice murmurs to herself, once she's walked out of the room and carefully closed the door.

She texts Caitlin to ask if there's something to do about John's nausea. The answer comes as she's starting to prepare the ingredients for her chicken broth.

_I can come by with some anti-emetics. We could try painkillers or migraine medications as well if the pain is what's making him nauseous._

_He says painkillers don't work,_ Clarice answers.  _But anti-emetics sound good. Thanks._

_I'll be here as soon as I can take a break. Probably no sooner than in an hour, though._

Clarice sighs and steels herself for another hour of worrying by herself. She does that too much, these days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should only be one more chapter after this, two at the most, but it's not written yet, so I don't know when I'll be able to post it. In the meantime, here's some more John whump, some Caitlin, Thunderblink because we NEED it, and a bunch of backstory headcanons.

John wakes up later to the sound of hushed voices somewhere in the apartment. He can recognize Clarice's cadence, but they're speaking too low to place the other voice. A third one joins in after a while, and John thinks it's Marcos.

The low-level noise is not excruciating, which is certainly an improvement over last night, though his head still feels like it might implode at any moment. A few sips from the glass of water Clarice brought him earlier help with the sleep-induced furry feeling in his mouth, and for the first time in−he quickly checks the alarm clock on his nightstand−over twenty-four hour, he doesn't feel like it might come back up right away.

He takes a moment to breathe through the pain and wake himself up before he shuffles out of bed. He puts his sunglasses on before opening the bedroom door, but the light coming from the living room windows still assaults his eyes.

“John!” Clarice exclaims−though not above a whisper. She's sitting with Caitlin and Marcos at the kitchen table, as far from the bedroom as it's possible to get within the apartment, but she's used enough to his enhanced hearing by now to know he'll hear her anyway. “I didn't expect you to wake up so soon.”

“I'm okay,” John answers, louder. He's immediately disproved by the fact that the sound of his own voice sends shards of agony through his skull, but he's hopefully the only one who knows that. Though with his hair and clothes messed-up by sleep and how pale his face probably is, he must look terrible.

He walks over to his friends and drops down in a chair beside Clarice.

“Have you slept at all?” she asks. “How are you feeling?”

John just nods and ignores her other question, suddenly hyper aware of Marcos and Caitlin staring at him. What is Caitlin even doing here?

“Chicken broth is almost ready, if you feel up to it,” Clarice whispers.

“Thanks. Maybe in a bit,” John answers, putting an arm around her shoulders. As a show of proximity and love, of course, and absolutely not because he can barely stay upright in his chair. He's not sure anyone here is duped, though.

“I brought some anti-emetics, if you want,” Caitlin says−she makes the effort of lowering her voice, but it's still too loud. John can't quite hide his wince this time.

“Sounds good,” he mutters. It's nice of her, and possibly a good idea, however much he wishes he was left in peace right now. Caitlin hands him a small pill bottle.

“You can take two, but it might knock you out a bit, depending on how your system reacts.”

“Thank you,” John answers, popping a couple of the pills into his mouth. Before Clarice can offer a glass of water−he can feel her moving to do just that−he swallows them dry. They might actually stay down long enough to take effect that way.

“How are you feeling?” Clarice asks again, softly.

John hesitates. Self-consciousness creeps in because of Caitlin and Marcos's presence, but Clarice clearly won't settle for anything but the whole truth. “Better,” he decides on. “Sleeping was good.”

“Will you let me check you out?” Caitlin asks, her voice full of concern.

John opens his mouth to refuse, but he catches the pleading in Clarice's eyes, and the pointed look Marcos gives him. They're worried about him. This will make them feel better.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Where?”

“It would be better if you were lying down.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes behind his sunglasses, in annoyance as much as in pain. God, he hates being this weak. Having so many people here to witness it is just icing on the cake.

“Bedroom, then,” he says. He stands up more brutally than he means to, and the chair scrapes on the floor, assaulting his ears. John catches himself on the back of the chair before he overbalances and feels it crack in his hand. “Dammit,” he murmurs.

Clarice's look of sympathy mixed with concern is almost unbearable. John shuts his eyes firmly and lets his other senses take over to guide him to the bedroom. He plops down on the unmade bed, removing his sunglasses and rubbing at his eyes.

He hears−sees, with his abilities−Caitlin come inside behind him and close the door. She hits the light switch, and John barely holds back a moan when his world is flooded with light and pain. He digs his palms deeper into his eyes and tries to breathe.

By the time Caitlin turns back to him, he's regained a semblance of balance.

“Lie down,” she says, softly but still too loud. She takes a stethoscope out of her scrubs pocket.

John, his eyes still closed, lets her examine him. He doesn't have the energy to fight her, and the less he resists, the sooner she'll leave.

“Your heartbeat's a little elevated,” she murmurs. “I doubt I can get a read on your blood pressure. Open your eyes for me?”

John catches Caitlin's hand firmly before she can shine the thin flashlight she pulled out of her pocket into his eyes. “Don't.”

“I need to know if your pupils respond properly,” Caitlin says, surprised.

“My eyes are fine.”

Caitlin frowns. “John, are you hiding something from me?”

“No,” John growls. “I don't think I can take that much light.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize. The light sensitivity's that bad?”

John turns his head away, letting her hand go. “It's better than yesterday. I can actually open my eyes when a light is on.”

“How often do you have these migraines?” Caitlin asks.

“Every few months. Last one was...a couple of weeks before we met, I think.”

“Have you ever tried migraine medications?”

“Yeah. Nothing worked. They're not regular migraines, just really bad sensory overloads.”

“And painkillers?”

“Same. They don't work well on me anyway,” John shrugs, sitting up and crossing his legs under him. Now that Caitlin is done with her examination, he feels uncomfortable talking to her while lying down, despite the fact that his head feels like lead. He rests his chin on his hand instead.

“Your body's dense, but it's not impervious to medicine,” Caitlin frowns. “They should work on you, you just need a higher dose.”

“I know they work,” John says quietly. “I just don't want any.”

“But why? John, you're hurting. You don't need to be strong all the time. I get that you didn't want to take any painkillers back in Atlanta because we didn't have enough, but I can get access to everything at the clinic now. It's not a problem anymore.”

“It's not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

John sighs. It's not something he likes talking about, but Caitlin is a nurse. Maybe it would be better if she knew. He's passed out during a migraine before. It wouldn't do for her to administer him narcotics while he's unconscious.

“I can't get addicted again,” he says, not looking at her.

He feels awful for checking that Clarice and Marcos are far enough away that they won't hear this. He'll tell Clarice, someday. Not today.

“What? What do you mean?” Caitlin asks.

“Before all this, before Lorna and I started the Atlanta station, I was taking all sorts of painkillers and anti-anxiety meds. I can't go back to that.”

“Oh my,” Caitlin murmurs. “I didn't know.”

“No one does,” John says. “Well, except for Lorna.”

“There isn't any sort of painkillers you can still take? It doesn't have to be opioids.”

“No. NSAIDs and paracetamol aren't strong enough, that's why I switched to narcotics. I actually needed them at first. I got injured on a tour, not long before 7/15, got some shrapnel in my back. And I was diagnosed with PTSD.” John bites his lip. He doesn't talk about this, ever. “The doctor had a lot of trouble finding a combination of meds that worked, we tried everything. Before I knew it, I was taking twice the maximum dose of Fentanyl and Percocet, plus Ativan, and it still wasn't enough.”

“So what did you do?”

“I tried to wean myself off, but I was already dependent, and still in too much pain. Then 7/15 happened. I was discharged from the Marines, my best friend was arrested, and he was the only thing keeping me sane at that point. So I just kept taking more pills.”

“But you stopped?”

“I got clean when I joined the Underground, yes. And I'm not going through that again.”

Caitlin nods slowly. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. I had no idea.”

“If you could keep it between us−”

“Of course. But don't you want to tell Clarice? Part of being a couple is being honest with each other.”

John resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I don't really need relationship advice,” he says, as firmly as his lack of energy allows him. “This is still new, and we both have plenty of baggage. I'll tell her, eventually.”

“Right. Well, you don't have a fever or anything, so there's not much I can do for you. Just try to drink regularly. You can take more anti-emetics in a few hours if you need to.”

“Thank you,” John says. “Can you tell Clarice that I'm fine? She won't just take it from me.”

“I wouldn't exactly say that you're fine, John.”

“But I will be.”

“She doesn't like seeing you like this, and I don't blame her,” Caitlin says.

“I just hate worrying her,” John murmurs.

“Then focus on getting better. I need to head back to the clinic, but call me if there's anything you need, okay?”

“Yeah,” John mutter as she retreats out of the room.

Exhausted, he lies back down, curling up on himself.

 

“John? You want to eat?” Clarice asks, knocking lightly on the door of the bedroom.

Caitlin and Marcos left an hour ago, after they tried to reassure her that John is going to be okay. Clarice wants to believe them, to believe John when he says this is normal, but she's never seen anyone be this sick because of a headache.

“Come in,” John answers sleepily.

Clarice pushes the door open. Giving her eyes a moment to get used to the dark, she finds John sitting up, rubbing at his eyes.

“How are you doing?” he asks her, deliberately not looking toward the door and the light it lets into the room.

“John, you're the one who's sick,” Clarice says, going to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I'm not sick, not really. But I can see this is hard on you.”

“How could it not be? Am I supposed to just not care?” Clarice answers a bit hotly. She takes a breath to calm herself. John doesn't deserve this, especially right now. “It hurts to see you in pain. But not as much as you're hurting.”

“I'm sorry,” John says, biting his lip.

“It's not like you're doing this on purpose. Or are you?”

“Believe me, if I could do without it, I would.”

“I'm sure you would. Would you rather eat in here or in the kitchen?”

“I'm not sure eating soup in bed would be a great idea right now,” John answers with a smile. “I'll come, just give me a minute.”

Right, coordination issues. Clarice can't believe how often she forgets all the little things John has to live with when they're not glaringly obvious. He's just so good at hiding them. Well, all the way until he has a meltdown−or ends up in bed with a migraine, apparently.

Clarice is still pondering over that when John makes it to the kitchen table where she's prepared him a bowl of soup.

“Thank you,” he smiles at her, sitting down in front of it.

Clarice takes the time to observe him. He does look a little better, though he still sits with his head in his hand like it's too heavy. Out of deference to him, Clarice has drawn the blinds on all the window in the apartment, so it's dark enough inside for him to do without sunglasses, even with the low kitchen light on.

“It's my foster mother's recipe,” Clarice says when John starts eating. With his nausea diminished by the meds, color is back on his face, and he doesn't look ill anymore, just tired.

John raises his head to look at her. “Wow, thank you. You didn't need to go to so much trouble.”

“I wanted to,” Clarice says.

“You remember it doesn't make that much difference to me if it's homemade, right?”

Clarice blinks, then smiles. “Right, no sense of taste. I remember. But it's a good memory. I was happy to make this for you.”

“Then thank you,” John repeats. “It does smell very good.”

“See? The store-bought stuff always smells terrible.”

“You're right, this is great. I might actually make it through the whole bowl.”

“When was the last time you ate anyway?” Clarice asks. “You've got to be starving.”

“Not sure,” John shrugs. “I think I ate a protein bar at some point...yesterday morning?”

“That doesn't count. Especially since you threw it up.”

John winces. “Forgot you saw that.” He looks up at the clock. “You going to eat too? It's almost noon.”

“I thought I'd wait,” Clarice answers. “I didn't want to bother you with the smell.”

“Unless you're eating smelly cheese, it should be okay now. Caitlin's meds worked pretty well.”

“Something worth keeping on hand then?”

“Definitely.”

John finishes his soup slowly, his energy seeping away, while Clarice starts making herself lunch with a minimal amount of noise. Cooking without banging pans and utensils is harder than you'd think, but she's gotten used to dealing with John's hypersensitivity in the last couple of months.

“You want to go back to bed?” she asks when he puts his spoon down.

“Probably best,” John answers sleepily. “I wish I could stay up with you.”

“You just rest up. We'll have all the time we want when you're better.”

John just nods and stands up, barely swaying this time, but his look says _you don't know that._ They never know when will be the next raid, the next time one of them gets hurt, or captured, or worse. They're living on borrowed time, going to bed every night knowing there might be no tomorrow.

On an impulse, Clarice catches up with John as he walks into the bedroom and throws her arms around him. “I love you,” she murmurs, burying her head in his shoulder.

John strokes her hair, leaning on her to keep himself upright.

“I love you too,” he says softly. He doesn't say it often, but when he does his heart is always in it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of Migraine, and most likely of this series. It's actually the first semi-long story that I manage to finish, and I'm fairly happy with it. Of course, this was just supposed to be 3k words or so, and it's now over 13k, so it kinda blow out of proportion.
> 
> Some things referenced in this chapter regarding John's backstory were explained in Hearing and Touch, so you might be a bit lost if you haven't read those.

John doesn't get out of bed until late afternoon, but when he does, he actually feels better. The soup has stayed down thanks to Caitlin's pills, and getting something into his body seems to have given him some energy back. Or maybe it was sleeping for five hours straight.

He finds Clarice on the couch, dozing off with a book ready to slip out of her hands. Quietly, John sets the book aside and turns off the reading light she was using. He doesn't need it to see−the dark still feels more comfortable anyway. After a moment's reflection, he takes the comforter from the chair it's resting on and spread it out over Clarice.

“Umm,” she murmurs, not quite waking up.

“Sleep,” John whispers back. “You need it.”

John knows exactly how badly she slept last night, since he was awake the whole time. He felt her tense beside her, trying not to move or make any noise, too many times. And it was because of him, too. The least he can do is let her sleep now.

He settles into an armchair. His head still hurts too much for him to consider reading or turning on the laptop to see if there's anything new on the Network, so he just curls up and lays his head on his arm.

He must still have been more tired than he thought, because he wakes up a while later to the sound of a light knock on the door. He doesn't need to extend his ability to get a clear picture of Marcos getting ready to knock again.

“Shh,” he breathes as he opens the door, not wanting to wake Clarice up.

“John? I didn't expect you. How are you doing?”

John waves him in. “Better. Clarice is asleep.”

“I made dinner,” Marcos says, holding up a cloth-covered dish. “I thought you'd both like to rest.”

“Thank you,” John smiles, though his stomach turns at the smell.

He takes the dish from Marcos and puts it on the kitchen counter, but he's still clumsier than usual and the porcelain clangs noisily against the counter. Clarice jumps up in alarm and John winces.

“It's nothing,” he tells her when her confused eyes finally settle on him. “Just me being a klutz.”

Clarice slowly takes in the scene in front of her, John with his hands raised in a peace gesture and Marcos hovering by the door, and relaxes.

“You're out of bed,” she says.

“Marcos brought us dinner,” John answers.

“Thank you,” Clarice nods to Marcos. “It wasn't necessary.”

“You have other things to think about.”

Clarice looks down at the comforter now tangled around her legs and frowns. She turns to John.

“You let me sleep,” she states, with only a hint of disapproval.

“You didn't sleep much last night,” John says.

“You slept even less.”

“Yeah, but I had all day to catch up.”

Clarice nods reluctantly. “You know you're not really supposed to take care of _me_ when you're sick, right? How's your head?”

“Getting there,” John lies. It was true just a few minutes ago, but standing through this conversation, with their voices barely hushed, is draining his energy. He resists yawning.

“Sit down,” Clarice orders, seeing right through it. “You can barely stand.”

“I'm fine,” John grumbles, but he obeys anyway and pulls up a chair from the table.

Clarice ignores his annoyance and walks over to sit beside him. “Do you feel like staying up to eat with us?” she asks.

“I think so,” John nods. “I'll take some more pills first, though.” The nausea is definitely making an appearance again.

“Here,” Clarice hands him the pill bottle.

“I don't have to stay, if want to eat by yourselves,” Marcos says, still standing by the door.

Clarice gives John a questioning look, and he nods minutely.

“Marcos, you cooked for us,” she says. “The least we can do is eat with you. Does this need warming up?”

“No, it should still be good. I kept it steaming until just a minute ago.”

John looks down at his hands. He took the dish from Marcos without paying attention to him using his ability, and honestly didn't notice the heat. Clarice notices his surprise and smirks.

“Good,” she says. “Then let's eat.”

Marcos stops hesitating and sits down on the third chair, the one that's largely become his over the last few months. He's had dinner here more often than in his own apartment. John doesn't understand what makes him so reluctant suddenly, but he doesn't have the energy to try and figure it out.

Clarice quickly sets the table, using pot holders to bring the dish over.

“John, I−” Marcos starts. “I wanted to apologize again for the other day. What I said was...completely unfair. And I should have seen you weren't okay. I wasn't paying attention.”

John sighs. So that's the reason for the awkwardness. He hasn't had any time−or rather any time free of the pain fog in his brain−to think about it, but Marcos has. He tries to remember exactly what Marcos said. He's nowhere near well enough for this conversation, but he can tell it's important to his friend.

“Listen, you're in a bad place right now. I know it's hard. You're allowed to lash out.”

“Not when you're having a migraine,” Marcos shakes his head.

“Yes, even then. I've told you this before, you don't need to treat me like a piece of china every time this happens!”

“So we should do what, scream your ears off when you can't stand noise?” Clarice asks sarcastically.

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” John sighs, frustrated.

“No, you just don't want us to worry. I'm sorry if we don't like seeing you in pain.”

“I don't want you to treat me any different because of it,” John says. Giving up on appearing healthy, he buries his head in his hands, closing his eyes. He doesn't have it in him to fight right now.

“John−” Clarice starts.

“Don't,” John stops her. He can't tell if she's going to ask if he's okay again or if she wants to argue further, but he can't handle either.

There's a silence around the table. John concentrates on his breathing, trying to ignore the pain.

“I did mean it, though,” Marcos says softly. “I'm sorry for what I said.”

John raises his head and looks at him. “I know,” he nods. “You weren't wrong, though. That I've been no use in finding Lorna. But I do care about her.”

“You brought us all the way here,” Marcos says. “I just wish−”

“So do I, brother.”

Clarice looks between them, confused at first, then mellowed. She puts a hand on John's arm, and hesitates to do the same with Marcos. He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, not letting her.

“I should go,” he says.

They've all finished eating by now, though John has barely eaten half his plate. Marcos stands before they can answer.

John meets Clarice's eyes and nods at her questioning look.

“Marcos?” she calls.

“What?”

“You're always welcome here. Always.”

Marcos hangs his head and walks to the door. John and Clarice can both see him swallow with difficulty.

“Thank you,” he says, not turning back. “Have a good night.”

He's careful not to slam the door behind him.

 

“You think he'll be alright?” Clarice asks John an hour later. They've decided on an early night, or rather John almost fell asleep at the table and Clarice decided to go to bed with him. They're lying side by side in the dark bedroom, Clarice resting her head on John's extended arm.

“Marcos?” John asks. “I don't know. The whole thing with Lorna is really screwed up.”

“What did he tell you, the other day? If you don't mind telling me.”

John hesitates. “That I didn't care about Lorna anymore now that I have you,” he admits.

Clarice sighs. “But you do. I can see that, everyone can see that.”

“Marcos knows that, he was just angry,” John says. “They're like my brother and sister. The only family I have. Watching them destroy each other is−”

“I understand,” Clarice says.

John nods and stays silent for a while, playing with her hair.

“You have any siblings?” he asks suddenly. They've never really talked about their families before. There was always too much to think about. He told Clarice once about what drove him away from his home, and he's seen one of her foster home, but that's about all they know about each other's childhood.

“Not that I know of,” Clarice says. “But I've had plenty of foster siblings.”

“Mutants?”

“And some humans. Some foster families would take in both. But I was never with anyone for more than a couple of years.”

“Anyone with cool powers?” John asks, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Plenty. I knew a girl with pixie wings who could fly. She was a few years younger than me, and she was so cute.”

John laughs as Clarice mimics wings with her hands.

“What about your brother?” she asks. “I mean your blood brother, not Marcos. Does he have the same mutation as you?”

“I don't know if he can track like me. He had extra body density growing up, which is the only reason I didn't kill him when I manifested,” John sighs. “I kinda hope he didn't get the rest of it, to be honest.”

It's one thing to be proud of being a mutant, but it's another to wish his particular abilities on anyone else, let alone his brother. Especially on a day like today, when John can still barely hold his head up on his own.

Clarice lets out a small laugh. “You know, that's what I always hated in the whole 'mutant and proud' movement. They were so focused on being proud that you couldn't ever speak about the not-so-good parts.”

“It doesn't seem to matter as much now, though, does it?” John asks.

“Now that we're fighting for our lives everyday? No, I guess not.”

“It's funny, how priorities can change. I used to believe in so many things, back when I enlisted. That I could make a difference, prove that mutants were just as valuable as humans.”

Clarice nods in sympathy. They stay silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

“You ever thought of tracking him down? Your brother,” Clarice asks eventually.

“A lot. But it's always been too dangerous. And I have no idea what he might think of me now. Or what he's even doing with his life.”

“Don't you want to know?”

“Of course I do, but I'd just be putting him in danger. I mean, look at us. Always waiting for the next raid, the next time Sentinel Services gets one of us. If James still lives on the reservation, he's safer than he'd ever be with me.”

Clarice relents. “I see what you mean,” she says. “I wouldn't bring my family into this, if I had one.

“I brought you into this, though,” John says. “When I went out to look for you. Twice.”

“But I decided to stay,” Clarice says. “And honestly? I like this situation better than when I was on my own. At least now I have a human radiator to snuggle close to when I'm cold.”

John smiles. “You keep saying I make a terrible pillow.”

“You do! You're like those heated stones that people used to put in their beds.”

“Am I?” John laughs.

He winces at the noise of several motorbikes in the street outside. Clarice moves closer and puts her hands over his ears until they're gone. It doesn't make much of a difference, but it's so thoughtful that John has to swallow around the knot in his throat. As a thank you, he brings her in for a kiss.

“How did you do it, at the bank?” Clarice asks when they move apart.

“What do you mean?”

“When you were...like this. It was always so loud, so busy in there.”

“Not before you arrived, not really,” John answers. “The Struckers' escape from Sentinel Services changed a lot of things. Before that, refugees would just be there for a few days before we got them across the border, and only a few of us lived there.”

“Still, how did you deal with it?”

“Usually I would hide in my room until it passed. It was easier when Pulse was there. He'd use his ability to reduce my senses to make it more bearable.”

Clarice shifts to look at him.

“I didn't know he could do that,” she says. “I thought he just blocked your tracking.”

“At full force, his power suppressed all active mutations,” John answers. “It wouldn't change your appearance, but it even affected my body density.”

“That must have been weird.”

“You have no idea. But we trained together for years in the Marines, so I got used to it. It was nice, actually, being able to feel touch and taste properly, and toning down my senses.”

“I can−no, actually, I can't imagine,” Clarice says.

“It was like...I don't even know. I wish you could have met him.”

“You still miss him.”

John turns to see Clarice's eyes shining in the dark, watching him intently.

“Yes,” he says simply. There's nothing to explain. He's still amazed that Clarice has taken it all in stride, his grief for Gus and Sonya, that he can never completely let them go.

“I wish I'd met him too,” Clarice murmurs. “He must have been a great guy, if you loved him that much.”

John chokes up, trying to keep his emotions under control. Clarice slips her arms around him until they're hugging properly. John concentrates on the feel of Clarice's skin on his, faint and soft, on the scent of her hair, and tries to let go of the pain and the tension.

“So, those migraines,” Clarice says after a while. “You've always had them?”

“No, it started when I manifested. I mean, when the sensory−” John hesitates and makes a frustrated gesture, unable to find his words, “−stuff started.”

He's never had proper words for his mutation. He's never heard of anyone with similar abilities, except maybe his little brother. Plenty of mutants have super-strength, and some have animal-like senses, but nothing like him. And the only doctors he's ever talked with, at the psychiatric institution and later in the military, used words like _hallucinations_ and _sensory processing disorder_ −words made for non-mutants.

“The headache started a couple of days in, and it didn't stop until I learned some level of control.”

“Control? I thought you couldn't turn it off?”

“No, but I can shield my mind a bit from the, uh, synesthesia-related stuff.”

“How long did it take you to learn?”

John shrugs. “Couple of years. Working with two telepaths.”

“So you, what, had a constant migraine for two years?” Clarice asks, using sarcasm to cover her shock. She winces when John just looks back at her and nods.

“Telepaths? Like the Frosts?”

“Not like them. They were X-Men.”

“Oh,” Clarice mutters.

“They helped a lot,” John says.

“How does it work? This...shielding your mind. I never understood what psionics really do.”

There's an edge in Clarice's tone that John can't help pick up on.

“Is this about what Sonya did to you?”

Clarice shrugs. “I don't know. I still don't really know what to think about that. But then there were the Frosts, too, and we still don't know how much Esme might have influenced us...”

“You know, my power is partly psionic too,” John says, looking at the ceiling.

“How's that?”

“When I see things that happened in the past, it's because my mind connects with my surrounding's...I guess you can call them memories. I see or smell traces, and those traces come with pictures.”

“That's...not really how I imagined it,” Clarice frowns.

“I can't really control it, but...you remember what I told you, when you had trouble with your portals?”

“To think about something positive?”

John snorts. “Yeah, it didn't make a great impression on you, I remember. But it's how the Professor showed me. When I arrived at the Institute, my visions would become unbearable anytime I was stressed, or scared, or angry. So he taught me to control my emotions first, so I wouldn't get overwhelmed so much.”

“Is that why you're so afraid of losing control?”

John sighs. “If I don't keep my strength in check, I could crush you without even noticing. And if I lose control over my powers, I could lose my mind.”

“John−” Clarice starts, but she doesn't go any further. John looks at her and strokes her cheek gently.

“It's okay,” he says. “I'm used to it.”

“Do you think−” Clarice hesitates. “The migraine, it could be linked to your stress level? You haven't been sleeping well.”

“It's possible,” John says. “It's been the case before. But sometimes it's just random.”

“But you haven't had one in a while. Not since we met.”

“No. I guess they mostly happen when I start to let go a little. With everything that's happened, I haven't−” he trails off.

“So, basically your body's telling you you need rest,” Clarice states dryly.

John laughs. “You could say it like that, yes.”

“We could stay in bed tomorrow.”

“All day? I'm not the best company, I'll probably just sleep,” John warns.

His head, his whole body don't hurt quite as much, but the migraine is not over. He's going to be tired and sore for a few more days.

“That's okay,” Clarice smiles. “I like watching you sleep.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! I've very much enjoyed writing this story, and sharing it with all of you. Thank you to every one who's left kudos or commented, and all those who have just read and enjoyed it!
> 
> As always, I love hearing what you think, so don't hesitate to leave a comment. I currently have four other The Gifted WIPs so I'm going to be around, and you can also find me on Tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theemmaarthur).


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